I kept making eye contact and looked him right in the eyes and gave him the message—wait until we stand lil breh, wait until that train stops. When it stopped we all got off and she looked at him with utter repulsion and disappointment, then I swooped in and introduced myself. She immediately lit up. I told her about my NFL career and fucked her that night. 180000000000.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5715291&forum_id=2#48875207)

The train rattled along, a steady hum of steel and motion. I slouched in my seat, all 6’7” of me folded into a space too small for my frame. My body, carved from years of discipline, looked like it could bench press the whole carriage. My face, though? Let’s just say it’s not winning any beauty contests. Scarred, jagged, the kind of mug that makes mirrors flinch. Still, I’ve got my own kind of gravity, and I know how to use it.

Across the aisle, I spotted him. Couldn’t miss him, really. A guy, maybe 5’11”, sitting down, looking like he’d just stepped out of a Hollywood casting call for “teen heartthrob.” Chiseled jaw, tousled hair, the spitting image of Zac Efron in his prime. My phone’s face recognition even pinged him as Efron when I snapped a discreet pic—purely for the story, you understand. He was the kind of pretty that made you wonder if he’d ever heard the word “no.”

Then she walked in. A vision in a sundress, all bright eyes and easy confidence. She scanned the carriage, and her gaze locked onto Pretty Boy. Her smile was instant, dazzling, the kind that could melt glaciers. She slid into a seat near him, tossing her hair, throwing glances his way like she was auditioning for a rom-com. He caught her vibe, leaned back, and flashed a grin that screamed, *I got this*. The whole damn train could feel the sparks.

I watched it all unfold, my lips twitching into a smirk. I caught his eye, held it, and sent a silent message: *Wait for it, kid. Just wait.* He didn’t know what was coming. Neither did she.

The train screeched to a stop at Grand Central. Everyone shuffled to their feet, and that’s when the plot twisted. Pretty Boy stood up, and the illusion shattered. His 5’11” frame, so perfect when seated, didn’t carry the same magic upright. He was lean, sure, but ordinary. The kind of guy who blends into a crowd the second he steps into one. The girl’s face fell—her smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of disappointment she couldn’t hide. She’d built him up in her head, and reality wasn’t measuring up.

That’s when I made my move. I rose to my full height, my shadow swallowing the space between us. Heads turned. Whispers followed. I strode over, my presence filling the platform like a storm rolling in. “Hey,” I said, my voice low but warm. “I’m Marcus.”

Her eyes widened, snapping up to meet mine. That spark was back, brighter now, like she’d just spotted something rare. I didn’t bother with small talk. “Played a few years in the NFL,” I said, casual, like it was no big deal. “Now I just travel, chase stories. You look like you’ve got one worth hearing.”

She laughed, a sound like sunlight, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m Lena,” she said, stepping closer. Pretty Boy was already a ghost, fading into the crowd. We walked off the platform together, her arm brushing mine, the city buzzing around us. That night, over drinks and stories, the sparks turned to fire. Let’s just say we didn’t spend it discussing train schedules.

Sometimes, it’s not about the face you’re born with. It’s about the space you command—and knowing exactly when to stand up.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5715291&forum_id=2#48875220)